


The Tower

by shuffle



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: M/M, OH! KIDNAPPING MENT, Squint Very Very Hard, anyway, female!togami, i call her satoko!, i havent really read translations for v3, maybe? - Freeform, naegami if you Squint, please beware!, scenes of vague rape/non-con, sorry i wrote this a long time agoo, spoilers for maki harukawa's backstory, written with the idea of assassin!togami in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuffle/pseuds/shuffle
Summary: Togami Satoko has never lived a peaceful life.





	The Tower

She was born unhealthily underweight, so much so that her own mother decided to give her up for adoption to pawn off the sick weakling to someone else.

She was taken in and raised by a woman who had the gentlest of voices and the prettiest of eyes; eyes that glowed golden in the light, golden like her hair that always seemed to smell so wonderful, so refreshing.

She was sent to a daycare filled with children who would braid her hair, marvel over how beautiful she was. They expressed their adoration and envy through chirps and murmurs, everyday sounds that the little girl had begun to take for granted.

Except one.

One little boy, with cocoa hair that spiked up in strange places and innocent green eyes that sparkled in the sun.

He spoke to her sweetly, with patience and kindness and love that overflowed like honey and poured into her, filling her with warmth and happiness and a feeling that everything was okay.

She lived in a paradise of her own...

… and then, her paradise broke.

_There is a tarot card that represents physical destruction and chaos. It claims truth and honesty will be one’s savior during said times of ruin._

_It is wrong._

She can visualise it clear as day—every time her pale eyes shut, a fleeting memory of that day crosses the black that should reside behind closed eyelids. She’d stumbled home, alone, after a wholesome afternoon playing with friends from school.

A shredded front door, its weak hinges crying as the new autumn wind forced it to slam open with every gust.

Dirty footprints intertwined with those mixed with blood, leading to and from a bleeding corpse that had once held the brightest eyes of gold.

The crowd of policemen that had invaded her home— _hers!_ —and forced her out.

The rise and fall of her tiny chest as she scrambled to get away from the nightmare she was living—the veil of darkness that overtook her vision after what seemed like years of running and crying—the aching of her trembling legs when she finally came to a stop in the arms of a woman with a voice like honey and eyes that vaguely reminded her of the sea.

She shouldn’t have stopped.

Her next days were spent in dark, empty rooms that seemed to subtly change every time she fell asleep and woke back up—there’d be an extra chair or pillow or desk, or maybe an extra plate or two of food would be replaced or taken away.

At least the food was edible.

Her minimal freedom was finally gained after her twelfth meal. Days had been hard to number in such an enclosed space, so the occasionally self-replenishing food had been her only way of knowing that time was even passing at all. (Or, at least, that’s what she told herself.)

The woman she’d met, the one with the eyes of the sea, guided her out of the dark room. She followed her through a long, thin hallway that made her feel like she couldn’t breathe, before being rushed into yet another dark room.

This time, she noticed uncertainly—this time, there was a thick smell of rusting metal hanging limply in the air, along with the addition of an all too dark light that glimmered dimly above a large bed in the middle of the room. It strained her eyes, but she grew accustomed to it over time, just like she grew accustomed to the way the floor always felt so slick and sticky, the way it grabbed onto her shoes when she walked—the way it made her slip and fall when she went barefoot that one time, and the way it felt so _unbearably_ dirty when it had dried on her palms.

The worst room of them all was the third one she was brought to. Unlike the others, it had a window that allowed her to view a limited portion of the outside world, but it was sealed to prevent her from opening it. An empty dresser sat to the right of the bed, with a plain wooden desk on the left, just under the window. A wooden chair, peeling with old paint, was thrown to the side. Sometimes she would pull it to the desk and sit on it, elbows digging into the wood of the table, and sometimes she’d stand up with double the cuts and splinters she’d had earlier.

She liked the window. It gave her a perception of time, but she hated time.

She hated when the sun would disappear fully behind the large leaves of the trees that blocked most of the glass. She would always feel tired when it disappeared, and no matter what, she’d fall asleep, and she wouldn’t ever know why she woke up in so much discomfort or why something felt… _wrong_ with her body, or why she had bruises she’d never seen before all over her thighs. She didn’t want to know.

Yes, she hated time.

And when she accidentally woke up in the middle of the night that one time, and seen a curious man she’d never ever seen before in her life standing over her—when he’d tried to force her back to sleep with false assurance and coos—when she was about to fall asleep, but couldn’t, because _something_ was sliding over her stomach and trailing down to her thighs…

Perhaps a more accurate statement would be that... she hated the night.

Especially the night when the scary men barged in, demanding for her to follow—or else she’d be shot, they threatened; shot, ten, twenty, thirty times—and they forced her into that horrible, horrible car, filled with nothing but cigarette smoke and rotting food; the night she was given a knife, a weapon that felt too clumsy for her small hands but she had to use it, she had to—she had no choice.

It was her life or his.

And then they barked commands, commands and comments that sounded something like, _step left! Holy fucking hell—to your left, stupid! Stab him! Higher up—yes, now do it again! He’s paralysed—slash his neck! Stab—slash it—you fuckin’… With more force, you idiot!... Yes—yes, that’s it. Good girl…_ Commands that forced her attention solely on listening and obeying, because if she didn’t—if she even tried to step back and look at what she was doing—if she stopped, even for a minute… she knew she’d die.

Him, or her. One of them would have to die that night, they promised her.

Her emotions dulled as the weeks passed and she was forced into yet another killing.

Killing after killing after killing after killing after killing—

—and then, she was seventeen. Seventeen, and going into what was called Hope’s Peak High School.

She had forgotten the meaning of the word “hope.” A cheerful little boy had once told her about it, marveled about its mysteriousness and its glory.

And, again, a hopeful boy would reach out and touch what she had thought she’d locked far too deep for anyone to ever find. A hope of her own.

A hopeful boy with cocoa hair that spiked up in strange places and innocent green eyes that sparkled in the sun.


End file.
